


Cast Down My Demons

by lforevermore



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Begging, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, Exhibitionism, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, Multi, Name-Calling, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Oral Sex, Sub Clint Barton, Tags to be added, crawling, cross-dressing, magical healing cock trope, messy blow jobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lforevermore/pseuds/lforevermore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want to fuck the team,” Clint says one day, out of the blue while he’s making breakfast. It’s four in the morning and they’re the only ones awake, Nat sitting on the counter in her workout gear, with her hair piled into a bun and her eyes on her Stark-approved e-reading device (“Every book in the world,” Tony had said. “Even the ones that aren’t technically published yet.”). His hands don’t even shake when he says it, despite the fact that he’s been anxious over it for the past two or three weeks. </p><p>“No, you want the team to fuck you,” Natasha replies, eyes never leaving her not-a-Kindle-damn-it-Barton. “There’s a difference.”</p><p>“Semantics. But yeah.”</p><p>---------</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ignoring Age of Ultron spoilers. Tags and chapters to be added.
> 
> Don't look at me, mom.
> 
> Follow at inmywildernesswriting.tumblr.com

They all like having control.

Steve’s been on ice for 70 years – he has no control over a single damn thing in his life anymore. He couldn’t even figure out how to turn the game on for the first few weeks, let alone get his life in any sort of order. He’s not a stupid man, not by any stretch of the imagination, and it’ll come to him until it’s as natural as breathing. In the meantime, however, he’s frustrated and angry, trying to cope with being thrust into another world with no chance of getting back.

Stark’s need for control is a little more subtle. He’s fast-talking wit, quick on his feet, easy to bend and adapt, but if you move anything in his lab two inches to the left, he will find you and he will set something of yours on fire. He watches Pepper run his company, chafes a little under SHIELD’s, Maria’s, and Steve’s stern eyes, but in his lab, in his domain, he calls the shots. So he clings tight to that, lest someone (the ghost of his father, perhaps) rise up and rip it from his desperate grasp.

Then there’s Thor – prince, spoiled in his youth and a little on the arrogant side of confidence. He’s grown and changed into a benevolent, amicable sort of guy, but no one could deny that he believed he was owed the best, as the best has always been his in the past. He is worthy, after all, of ruling Asgard, and letting go of what is his _right_ , what he is _entitled_ to… well, that’s a fight that Clint has no delusions of winning.

Banner’s easy. Banner’s nothing _but_ control, has said himself that if he lets go, if he lets his carefully built guard down, there very well could be hell to pay. He’s tension wrapped in a tight ball of forced calm, the right thread being pulled at the right time to get the results that he needs. Banner _has_ to be in control, or people get hurt. There’s not even the thought of letting go, not for him.

Natasha… Clint has known Natasha for longer than he’s known any of them (except for Phil, but they rarely talk about Phil – walls have ears and eyes, they’ve learned), and Clint is comfortable in the knowledge that even if Nat needs to let go, she never will. Being her own master is too new to her, and probably always will be. She may be cut free from the Red Room, but the strings still drag behind her, as much a part of her as her own shadow. They won’t hold her up again, he knows, but they won’t disappear either.

Everyone likes control. Everyone, that is, except for Clint.

 

Clint and Nat have been fucking since Clint brought her in. They weren’t big talkers, after all, though he was definitely more of a conversationalist than she was, and so when Nat pushed Clint down and relayed her gratitude and willingness to trust him with her hand in his hair and her lips on his throat, Clint took it for what it was.

They’ve only ever really discussed their dynamic once, in his messy old shoebox of an apartment, before Coulson had waltzed into and organized their lives for them. She had asked what made him different from those she had encountered before, why he was so willing to go wherever she put him, do what she told him. She’d still had a hint of Russian in her voice then, Clint remembers fondly, and he’d still had a bright purple comforter that draped around their naked forms like a strange, misshapen cloud.

“I spend a lot of time with perfect control,” Clint had said. “Perfect shot, perfect vision – if I fuck up, someone gets away, costs a lot of time and money for other people to fix my mistakes.” He hadn’t brought up the circus or Trickshot then, but it will come up later, years down the road when they’re huddled together and licking their wounds in Budapest. “I just… It’s stressful. Giving orders is stressful, following them isn’t. This is a stress relief.”

Nat had got it, because of course she had, and from then on she hadn’t needed to ask again. The only things she ever asks are “Do you need it, Clint?” and “What’s your safeword?” There are a few other questions sprinkled in, of course (“How bad do you want it?” “Do you think you can take one this big?” “Are you going to behave, or am I going to have to make you?”), but ultimately, sex with Nat is as second-nature as breathing, just like the rest of their relationship.

She’s the one who puts him back together after Loki, she’s the one who strokes his hair when he cries for Coulson. She’s the one who’s there when the nightmares of what Loki made him into mix with the ghosts of his past.

She needs him, just as much as he needs her, and it works.

 

“I want to fuck the team,” Clint says one day, out of the blue while he’s making breakfast. It’s four in the morning and they’re the only ones awake, Nat sitting on the counter in her workout gear, with her hair piled into a bun and her eyes on her Stark-approved e-reading device (“Every book in the world,” Tony had said. “Even the ones that aren’t technically published yet.”). His hands don’t even shake when he says it, despite the fact that he’s been anxious over it for the past two or three weeks.

“No, you want the team to fuck _you_ ,” Natasha replies, eyes never leaving her not-a-Kindle-damn-it-Barton. “There’s a difference.”

“Semantics. But yeah.”

“Okay.”

Clint waits for a minute while the eggs cook, shoving them around with his little plastic spatula – technically, it’s Stark’s little plastic spatula, because Clint’s new, shiny apartment got blown to hell in the Chitauri invasion.

Nat doesn’t say anything.

“So…” Clint finally starts.

“I said ‘okay,’” Nat replies. “Do you need me to explicitly say that I approve of and condone this development?”

“Kind of.” The eggs are boiling, forming bigger chunks now. “I mean, we’re not exactly fucking anyone else.” _Not anymore_ , Clint almost says, and Nat hears the unspoken words.

She shuts her its- _not-a-fucking-Kindle_ -Barton off, putting it to the side. “Clint,” she says. “We’re not… we’re not exactly open but we’re not exactly exclusive, either. And I’m not always here. You need someone else you can trust to take you down. Someone that _I_ can trust to take you down.”

“And you trust them?”

“Yes,” Natasha answers without hesitation. “I do. So, if you want to fuck them, okay. If I’m not here and you _need_ it, okay.”

Clint releases the breath he’d been holding. Fortunately, he doesn’t need to express the rest of his worries, because Nat is a mind-reader.

“I’ll talk to them,” she says. “I’ll let you know.”

 

She lets him know. Tony gives him a wink and a nod, Banner flushes like a virgin on prom night, and Thor tells him about the Warriors of Asgard. Steve, though, he gets this _look_ on his face, and he claps his hand on Clint’s shoulder and tells him that whatever Clint needs, they’re there for him.

All in all, it’s a little mortifying. He also has a thing for humiliation, so it also arousing.

Clint’s life is a little confusing sometimes.

 

The first time it happens, Natasha’s in some country, quietly overthrowing a government. Clint’s not sleeping on the bed, feels too exposed without someone else there to watch his back, so when he jolts awake with a scream on his lips at two in the morning, no one is there to smooth down his sweat-soaked hair or take him into their arms and shush him. He scrambles out of the trappings of the blankets, away from the nest he’s made on the floor and into a corner between the wall and the nightstand.

He covers his face, and he breathes.

When Clint feels less like he’s going to crawl out of his own skin (still uncomfortable, so desperately strange), he stands on wobbly legs. He can’t be in this dark room anymore, not when Nat’s not there to chase his demons away, and he won’t go back to sleep because he’s sure Loki’s there waiting for him.

Instead, he heads for the gym.

He’s only there for ten minutes or so when he figures that it’s not gonna work. He can’t lift with no one to spot him when he’s like this, half out of his head and terrified of his own mind. He can’t shoot like this, either, doesn’t trust himself to be able to tell friend from foe in the thick of it, yet.

“Anyone awake, Jarvis?” Clint asks.

“Mr. Stark is working in his shop, Mr. Barton,” Jarvis replies politely. “Shall I tell him you’re on your way down?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and steps into the elevator, scrubbing his face. “Yeah, take me down.”

Tony’s tinkering with something at one of his workbenches when Clint reaches the workshop floor. He’s wearing jeans at two in the morning, the faint light of the arc reactor shining through his black tank. The music is turned down, which means that he’s been waiting for Clint, because he never listens to it at anything less than deafening when he’s working.

“Hey, Hotshot,” Tony says without looking up from whatever he’s fiddling with. “Pull up a chair. I’ll just be a minute.”

Clint rubs at the back of his neck, wavering. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were working,” he says, and starts backing toward the door. He can just go back upstairs and put on a movie or something, or sleep in his bathtub like he does sometimes.

Tony looks up at him, raises one eyebrow, and points his screwdriver at a nearby chair. “Wasn’t a request.”

A crack of heat runs through Clint, and he sits down.

“Natasha mentioned you might be coming around,” Tony says. Clint has it on very good authority that she didn’t just mention it, she gave him a long lecture about what was cool, what wasn’t cool, and what she would literally kill him for.

“Had a nightmare,” Clint says, short. He tries to get the next words out, but it’s hard enough to say it when it’s Nat. “I…”

“Need it?” Finally, Tony puts down the thingamajig, turns to face Clint. “Need what?”

Clint swallows. He doesn’t _know_ , is the thing, has no idea what he needs beyond the need to be put out of his own head, to be broken down and built up again. Tony eyes him for a moment, like Clint’s something he needs to redesign.

“I understand it,” Tony says when Clint doesn’t answer. “I’ve been on both sides of this line – the guy with the control, and the guy on his knees.”

Clint will have to revise his mental assessment of Stark later. “Didn’t have you pegged for a switch.”

“Ha, _pegged_.” Tony smirked. “I’m not asking for a movie script, here. What do you need?”

Clint blows out a breath. He needs to lose himself enough that the tight knot of fear around his heart will loosen, so that he can dream without blue ice and a mocking laugh. “I need sleep. I can’t… I can’t relax, I need to sleep.” It’s the best he can articulate.

Tony nods like he gets it, and hell, the guy probably does – _Afghanistan, Obadiah Stane, ‘one-way trip, Stark,’_ Clint’s mind supplies. “Here’s what I think,” he says. “I think that I _could_ take you upstairs, take you apart nice and slow, which wouldn’t be a damn hardship for either of us, and is something I would definitely like to revisit in the future. But I don’t think that’s what you _need_.”

Clint’s breath catches as Tony steps closer, slow and measured, like he’s afraid Clint’s going to dart away. The look in his eyes, though, is knowing and predatory.

“What do I need?” Clint asks, throat gone dry.

Tony smirks, leans in and brackets his arms around Clint in the chair, blocking him in. And yeah, Clint could put him flat on his ass in a second, but right now Clint _needs_ to be the prey, needs to be vulnerable.

“This.”

Tony fists a hand in Clint’s hair and Clint groans, dropping to his knees with the rush of _finally, god, yes_ that sweeps through him. The rickety chair slides back until it’s tucked back under the desk it had been pulled from, and Clint’s blocked in, now, Tony above him and in front of him and the desk behind him. Clint pulls at Tony’s fly, yanking the man’s pants down past his knees so that there’s just a thin layer of fabric between his mouth and Tony’s cock.

When he reaches up to pull the boxers down, too, Tony stops him with a sharp tug. “Haven’t earned it yet,” he says. “And you don’t want it to be that easy, do you? Wouldn’t give you what you’re craving. Nat passed out a whole folder, we all have a copy. Even made a backup on my hard drive. I know _exactly_ what you need, Hotshot.”

And, shit, the embarrassment of Nat laying him out like that, bare for them to see… it sends a shock down Clint’s spine that has him harder than ever.

“Beg for it,” Tony says, smooth as cheap whiskey down the back of Clint’s throat. “Make it good.”

Clint hasn’t even _seen_ Tony’s dick, but suddenly he wants it more than he’s wanted anything else in his entire life. It’s been months since he’s known this, and he’s desperate for it, may, in fact, die without it. “Please,” he says. It’s all he can manage for a moment, but Clint is good at conveying a lot of feeling with only a few words, so he adds, “ _God_ , I wanna choke on it, please.”

Tony swears, filthy, above him, drags Clint’s face so that he can mouth at the bulge in Tony’s boxers. It’s a tease for both of them, just a little taste through the fabric, an acknowledgement of how hard Tony is, and it’s not what Clint wants.

“Please,” he pants out again, against the fabric.

“Yeah, go for it,” Tony finally says, a little breathless above him.

Clint reaches up, deft fingers dragging Tony’s boxers down to join his pants, and Tony’s cock is _there_ , curved and hard and heavy, and _Christ, Clint wants it so bad_. Tony’s hand stops him short again, however, sharp tug on Clint’s hair, and Clint honest-to-god whines, hands clenching in Tony’s pants.

“Hands on my waist,” Tony orders, and Clint complies. “You need to slow down, two taps. You need to stop, let go. Got it?” Clint nods, tries to lean forward to _taste_. “Say it. I need to hear you say it. If you wanna slow down?”

“Two taps,” Clint says, tapping Tony’s hip twice in rapid succession.

“And if you need to stop?”

“Let go,” Clint says, but doesn’t demonstrate.

“Good boy,” Tony purrs, and a little shiver of pleasure eases down Clint’s spine to stiffen his cock even more.

Finally, finally, he lets Clint move forward, open his mouth and take the head in, but stops him before he can get too much farther. His hands move, one coming to cradle the side of Clint’s face as the other curls around the base of Clint’s skull, and then he’s pressing Clint forward, slow and steady, until Tony’s cock is almost in Clint’s throat.

He releases, and Clint pulls back to gasp in a breath, eyes watering.

“Still wanna choke on it?” Tony asks, thumb stroking Clint’s cheekbone. “Want me to feed it to you?”

Clint nods, drops his mouth open and cocks his head back like he’s waiting for it. A sharp tap on his cheek, not quite a slap but not gentle either, and he whines.

“Ask me for it, nicely.”

Clint groans, low in his throat. “Please,” he says. “Give me your cock, please.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony swears again, tangles his fingers in Clint’s hair, and gives him exactly what he’d asked so nicely for. Clint opens and takes it, revels in the stretch and fill as Tony doesn’t _stop_.

The knot in his chest loosens in the haze.

“Remember your signals.”

It’s all the warning Tony gives before he thrusts, fucks in and out of Clint’s mouth. Clint digs his fingers into Tony’s hips and lets himself lose it, focuses on trying to breathe through his nose. Tony gives him no quarter, holds Clint’s head exactly where he wants it. He drags his cock in and out, pressing back down into Clint’s throat again and again, until Clint is breathless, head-spinning, tears coming unchecked out of the corners of his eyes.

Then he pulls away, fists his hand tight enough in Clint’s hair that it _hurts_ , glorious burst of pain that nearly sends Clint spiraling down. “Right there,” Tony says as Clint gasps in air again, “stay right there, Hotshot, God, _fuck_.”

And then he’s coming, and Clint opens his mouth because he wants to _taste_ , damn it, catches the head and sucks it dry until Tony’s clenching his fists and yanking him away with a stream of filthy swears.

Tony doesn’t let him loose, though, even as he breathes, one hand on the desk to stabilize him. “You wanna get off?”

Oh, fuck, he’s so hard. He’d been so wrapped up that he hadn’t even noticed but _Jesus fucking Christ, he’s so hard_. “Please,” Clint breathes. “Please, Tony, let me.”

“Do it,” Tony says, shoving one of Clint’s hands away. “Keep your pants on, I wanna see you cream ‘em.” He keeps his hand in Clint’s hair, twists the strands and forces Clint’s head back so that he has to look Tony in the face.

Clint flushes – he’s got come on his face and the whole fucking team knows what revs his engines, and fuck if he doesn’t love it. He’s kneeling on the floor of Tony Stark’s workshop, hand down his pants like he’s back in the barracks.

“Open your mouth,” Tony says, swipes a finger across Clint’s cheek and slides it into Clint’s mouth. Come, he’s licking Tony’s come off of Tony’s fingers, and fuck, that’s it, he’s done for, vision going white and world going unfocused around him as he comes in his pants.

He breathes, then, and Tony’s hands gentle. A rag comes up, wipes his face clean, and Tony combs his hand through Clint’s hair. “Good boy,” he murmurs, among other things that don’t stick in Clint’s brain as easily. Praises, though, and that’s what matters as he floats.

He’s tired, Jesus, so tired. Someone lifts him, and he opens his eyes and the realization that Tony _can’t_ lift him strikes, and he sees Cap above him, a concerned (and slightly flushed) look on his face.

“Gonna be about ten minutes,” Clint manages, a slur – his eyes want to drift closed into blissful, dreamless sleep.

“Just taking you up to bed,” Steve says. “Tony’s room, figured you didn’t want to sleep alone?”

“Damn,” Clint says, and starts to drift again.

The last thing he hears, though, makes him smile as he nods off. “Maybe tomorrow.”


	2. Steve and Tony, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wakes up to a day with Steve and Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II will be up as soon as I can get it done. This chapter contains the following added tags: mentions of cross-dressing, mentions of exhibitionism, mentions of hand-feeding, crawling, name-calling, and kink negotiation.

Clint sleeps without dreaming for the first time since Natasha left.

He wakes, and he’s not alone. Tony is sprawled out beside him, curled into the blankets like he’s afraid of the cold with one leg sticking out over the edge of the bed. He doesn’t even stir when Clint slides out from beneath the covers.

Clint’s got some options, he thinks. He can leave, but that’d be a pretty douche-y move, and Tony is a lot more sensitive than he really likes to let on – he takes shit personally, for all that he wears his persona like a second suit of armor. Clint’s not as much of an asshole as he likes people to think, which means that leaving’s out. So he can either wake Tony up (possibly for round two), or he can go scrounge up some coffee.

Coffee wins.

His pants aren’t exactly comfortable, but he doesn’t want to rifle through Tony’s drawers to dig out a pair of ludicrously expensive ones, so they’ll do. Clint heads out of the bedroom, through the living area, and into the kitchen, soft footfalls on the carpet and then the linoleum, to stare at the monstrosity that he assumes is the coffee machine.

“Morning.”

Clint starts, turns to find Steve leaning against the refrigerator with a mug of coffee in hand. He nods toward another counter, where there is a perfectly normal coffee maker, half full. “That one’s mine, nice and simple, but Tony’s has flavorings and stuff if you’re into that. Mugs are in the cabinet above it.”

“I didn’t think _he_ was into that,” Clint says. He goes to grab a mug and finds that the shelves are organized by cup design – specifically, one shelf is full of Iron Man and the other is full of Captain America.

Steve gives an embarrassed chuckle. “He picks ‘em up, says that’s how we should tell ‘em apart. Mine are the, uh, the Iron Man ones. I think he’s got a collectable set of all of them if you want to use a Hawkeye one?”

“I’ll settle for a shield.” Clint grabs one with Cap’s shield on it and helps himself to the coffee. He bypasses the sugar, creamer, and whatever Tony’s got on his side of the kitchen.

It’s only after he’s leaning against the counter, breathing in the scent of caffeinated bliss, that he realizes that Steve is suspiciously familiar with Tony’s kitchen. He’s got a coffee maker and a shelf full of mugs, and Clint is suddenly pretty sure that had he gone searching for pants, he might have come up with Steve’s instead of Tony’s.

“So, did I kick you out of bed last night?” Clint asks. It’s a loaded question, and he knows that Steve can pick up on that. He doesn’t want to fuck up anything that they have – they’re all such fragile people.

“No,” Steve says without hesitation. “I brought you up here, Clint, remember? Despite what everyone thinks, I’m not on some foreign moral plane – if I didn’t want you in this kitchen, you wouldn’t be in this kitchen.”

It’s kind of comforting, really, laying it out like that. Clint’s always preferred direct over subtle in his day-to-day life – he gets enough of the diplomatic bullshit at work.

“So do you?” Clint says over his mug. “ _Want_ me in the kitchen, I mean?”

Steve raises an eyebrow and takes a long drink of his own coffee before setting it aside, ceramic meeting counter with a clink. “I _want_ you on every single surface in this Tower. The kitchen’ll do.” There’s a little bit of Brooklyn back-alley in his quick grin, Clint thinks, and it perks him up faster than coffee ever could.

“I need a shower first,” Clint says. “And I’ll probably have to borrow some clothes.”

“Shower I can do, but you’re not gonna need clothes today.”

_Sweet mother of Christ_ , there’s a Saturday morning cartoon of this man. For _children_. The world has no idea.

Clint drains his coffee and puts the mug down as well. He grips the counter and eyes Steve – they’re barely four and a half feet away from each other, and Clint feels like he’s trapped (in a good way, the way that he likes). Steve meets his gaze right back, and Clint runs hot, warmth tickling through him to curl low in his belly.

“You _are_ gonna need a safeword,” Steve finally says.

“Lola,” Clint says automatically, first instinct, and winces. “No, wait. Pizza.”

‘Pizza’ is new for Clint and Nat – ‘Lola’ had been their standard for so long, but now it’s painful enough that Clint’s afraid he won’t say it if he needs to. Steve thankfully doesn’t question it, just nods. Clint wonders, briefly, if there are words that pain Steve to say, give him that little flutter of grief within his chest.

If there are, they aren’t on Steve’s mind, if the look on his face is anything to go by. He’s calculating, drawing his eyes down over Clint’s body – shoulders, chest, abs, sharp cut of his hips before his jeans hide skin, and then back up to meet Clint’s eyes.

“You want to go down?” Steve asks, soft and heavy in the early morning light.

Clint nods, swallows – he wants, God, does he want, and it must show on his face.

“Tell me,” Steve says. “You have to tell me what you want, or I can’t give it to you.”

That’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it? They’re giving him what he needs, or trying to, and Clint can’t let go. Nat says that’s one of his biggest problems, letting go and trusting that someone else will catch him.

He breathes. “I want to stay down,” he says, but that’s not exactly right. “No, I - I _need_ you to take me down. And keep me there.”

Steve’s expression shifts to something like a soft hunger, like he wants to wrap Clint up in his arms just as much as he wants to scratch his nails down Clint’s back. Clint tends to inspire that weird mix of emotions in people, it’s a gift.

“I can do that,” Steve says.

And then he’s striding forward, all intent and righteousness, almost like Cap’s in the kitchen instead of good ol’ Steve Rogers. Hands drag up the side of Clint’s neck, calloused in ways different from his own, to cup Clint’s jaw and pull him forward. Steve takes his time, kisses Clint like he’s a dying man, like he’s about to go face-first into the ocean again. He kisses Clint like he wants to devour him, and at the same time like Clint is precious and fragile.

They are all fragile people, but Clint wants to break and let them put him back together.

Then Steve’s lifting him, putting him up onto the counter and pressing himself between Clint’s legs. It’s a little bit of a trip, to be lifted like he weighs nothing at all, definitely heady and rushing straight to Clint’s head. That’s when Steve – perfect, _perfect_ Steve – fits his hand right over Clint’s throat, presses his head gently back against the cabinet, and holds him there.

“Jesus fuck,” Clint manages, breathless – Steve’s holding on, but he hasn’t tightened his grip yet. He looks to be gauging Clint’s reaction. “Was this in the handout?”

“There was a worksheet,” Steve says, and slowly starts to cut off Clint’s air intake, until Clint is gasping for air, feeling that floating sensation in the back of his mind. He releases, lets Clint come back down a little, but doesn’t remove his hand. “Tony struggles a little. You just… take it.”

“We doin’ this here?” Clint manages, struggles to come out with a full sentence for a moment. It’s easier as he presses on. “That’s not sanitary, Cap.”

“Tony tells me we have a cleaning service for that.” Steve pulls back, studies him for a long moment, fingers just lightly tapping on Clint’s pulse point. “Or maybe we can just put you in a maid costume. Tony has one in the closet.” His eyes narrow as Clint takes a sharp inhale – this man is on the Mini-Wheat box, good _God_ – and his lips quirk into a small, dirty grin. “You like that? Nat mentioned something about…” He pauses, presses against Clint’s throat until Clint can’t breathe at all. “Proclivities.”

_Kinks_ , Clint wants to say, but he can’t suck in a breath to think, let alone speak, not until Steve lets up and watches Clint gasp desperately. “Fuck,” Clint whispers. Then, because he has always been and will always be a brat (as Nat calls him), he says, “Wholesome, my ass. If the Boy Scouts could hear you now, Jesus Christ. You’ve got a mouth on you.”

Steve laughs a little, too rough to be a chuckle, and colors a little. His grin doesn’t back down, however. “From what Tony says, so do you.”

Fuck, they talked about him, most likely while he was asleep in their bed. It’s Clint’s turn to flush and choke back a moan.

Steve notices, because of course he does, he’s Captain fucking America. “Nat mentioned something about humiliation being a proclivity as well.”

“Kinks, Steve, they’re called kinks.”

Clint starts, but it’s just Tony, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with sleep-ruffled hair and naked as a jaybird. The arc reactor is bright in the center of his chest, and he looks an awful lot like he wants to be in on the action, but is holding himself back.

“Huh, I thought that was just a you-thing.” Steve looks over his shoulder at Tony, lets his eyes roam over Tony’s naked form. “I have plans. You want to come in, you ask. Understood?”

Tony nods, and Clint kind of wants to get this on tape – Tony Stark being brought to heel.

It gets better, too. Steve glances back at Clint, regards him for a moment, and then turns his gaze to Tony once more. “Go to the bedroom and get me the leash and the collar.”

Clint _had_ been flagging a little, but with that, he was rock hard and ready for anything. He stifles a moan, bites his lip so hard that he can almost taste blood, he’s sure. Steve pulls his hand away from Clint’s throat, slides it down Clint’s chest to wrap his arms around him and pull him off of the counter. Sitting in place is one thing, but standing is another and Clint has to grab onto Steve for support for a moment. Steve, bless him, is perfect, and waits until Clint is steady to pull away.

“What do you say if you want to stop?” Steve asks, soft.

“Pizza,” Clint answers, confidently.

“And if you want to slow down?”

Clint has to give him kudos for that one. Tony has certainly taught the man well. “Lucky.”

“Pizza and lucky. Got it,” Steve says. He eyes Clint again – it’s strange, how much time he takes just to _look_ , like he’s afraid Clint’s going to up and vanish at any given moment. “Take your pants off.”

Clint obeys without a word – he’s never been one to insist on wearing pants at any time. Seriously, someone could say, “Hawkeye! Take off your pants!” in the middle of a fight and he’d probably do it. He’s stalling, he thinks, because he has no idea what to do with the pants now that they’re off.

Fortunately, Tony comes back quickly. He smirks when he sees Clint standing in the middle of the kitchen, naked and slightly confused with a pair of pants in hand. Steve takes the pants from Clint and holds them out to Tony, taking the leash and collar in his other hand.

“Take these to the laundry, please,” he says.

“Maid costume,” Tony replies. “Think about it.” He takes the pants, though, and disappears down the hall again.

Steve turns to Clint, who swallows. He wants to go to his knees, but he’s not sure that’s what Steve wants – if Steve wants to jerk him around or what. Steve, thankfully, continues to be perfect, and points to a place on the floor near the cabinet he’d just almost choked Clint out on. “Knees,” Steve says, and Clint goes.

The collar is just on the right side of heavy, and Steve buckles it so that Clint can _feel_ it, the weight and the tightness of it, without having to struggle for breath. The leash comes next, and Steve winds it around his hand, shortens it just to jerk Clint forward once, before releasing him and letting him have some slack.

“You’re going to sit here, nice and quiet for me, while I get breakfast started,” Steve says. “If you need something, let me know. When Tony gets back, you’re gonna go with him until food’s ready. Got it?”

Clint nods. Steve frowns, jerks the leash up until Clint is struggling to stay on his knees and breathe at the same time.

“I said, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint replies, breathless.

Steve hooks the end of the leash to one of the knobs on the cabinets above the counter, leaving Clint in the same predicament – on his knees and stretched up, trying to be good for Steve and trying to breathe. Steve moves around him, ignoring the plight that he’s left Clint in, and starts pulling fruit out of the refrigerator.

Tony comes back – Clint’s not sure how long, but it’s long enough that he’s starting to have to fight back whines, swallow them down the back of his throat. He half-wants to fuck up, just to be punished, to see what Steve can come up with, but ultimately he wants to be _good_ more than he wants to push.

He just wants to feel like he’s worth something again.

“Come on, Hotshot.” Tony unhooks the leash from the cabinet. “Let’s let Steve cook, get out from under his feet.”

Clint starts to stand as Tony tugs on the leash, but Steve stops him with a sharp look from where he’s cutting cantaloupe on the counter. “Try again,” he says with a pointed glance at the floor. Clint flushes, and obediently drops his palms to the clean linoleum to crawl after Tony’s pull.

Tony leads him to one of the couches, settling back and spreading his legs so that Clint can kneel between them. “You’re wearing one of mine,” Tony says, giving the D-ring the leash is hooked to a flick with his nail.

“I have my own in my room.” After a second of thought, Clint decides not to mention that it’s got a tag with “SLUT” in clinical print.

Tony smirks, however. “Yeah, Nat showed us. Slut, huh?”

Clint looks away, down at his hands resting on his knees, and feels the color on his cheeks.

“Hey,” Tony says, softer. “If you need to slow down, if we go too far –“

“I know my word,” Clint says, lifting his gaze again. He knows his own limits, and part of this is the humiliation for him. He _wants_ to be pushed past the point of being able to look someone in the eye, and he _wants_ that smirk leveled at him and spouting dirty, filthy things.

Tony nods, leans back again and starts to wrap the leash around his hand. “So here’s what we’re thinking,” he says. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before and hated it. We’re gonna have breakfast, and you’re gonna be very, _very_ good while we feed you. Then, you’re gonna take a nice, hot – emphasis on _hot_ – shower with Steve. And then, we were thinking, you know, what’s something Clint would like? What’s something Nat would like? So we came up with the idea that we would get you all dolled up and sending a few pictures to Nat.”

“Shit,” Clint swears. “Shit, okay, I’m down with it.”

Tony grins at him. “And then we were thinking, you know, we’ve got all this rope and these cuffs, but there’s gotta be a perk to the super-soldier serum besides the whole golden god thing. So Steve’s gonna hold you down – and believe me, he can do it with just his fucking _hand_. There’s a hook for the leash on the headboard, and I have a whole drawer full of toys with your name on ‘em.”

Clint whines – Tony’s got the leash wound around his hand and he pulls, until Clint is clambering up into his lap, straddling his legs. Tony gets his hands in Clint’s hair and drags him down for a breathless kiss, licking his way into Clint’s mouth. He runs his hands down the line of Clint’s back to get a firm grip on each of his ass cheeks, pulls Clint’s hips down and rolls his up, letting Clint tear his mouth away to gasp out a swear.

“You gonna be good for us, Hotshot?” Tony asks in what is most definitely the same bedroom voice Clint had heard the night before.

“Fuck yes,” Clint says.

Tony digs his nails in, watches Clint hiss and try to arch away. “Fuck yes _what?_ ”

“Fuck yes, sir!”

Tony releases, soothes the skin with a gentle rub, and moves Clint’s head to mouth at his neck and put his lips right by Clint’s ear. “Gonna put you in a pretty pair of stockings, I think,” Tony murmurs, and nips at the skin. “Put some lipstick on you, just to watch you mess it up with a ball gag or Steve’s cock. I wanna see it all over the goddamn pillow.”

“Tony.”

Clint turns his head to find Steve in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching them like he wasn’t affected at all – the bulge in his pants definitely says otherwise.

“Breakfast is ready.”

Tony gives Clint a gentle nudge. “Go. Give Steve your leash, he’s the one in charge around here.”

“On your knees,” Steve says, and then he gets that dirty grin again. “Like a good little slut.”

No one will ever believe him. Nat’s not even going to believe him. He’s got to be asleep, because hearing that word come out of Steve’s mouth can’t be real, and is also incredibly hot.

Clint slides off of Tony’s lap and crawls to Steve to sit back on his heels and hold up the end of the leash in offering. Steve takes it, cards a gentle hand through Clint’s hair with a softening of his expression.

“Tony check in with you?” he asks, and Clint nods. “Good. Breakfast, then.”


End file.
